GIBSON PIER

Chapter 1: The Pier

The first body turned up at sunrise, splayed like a gutted fish at the end of the Lakeshore Pier. The locals called it “The Plank”—a rotting finger of wood clawing into Lake Pontchartrain. Detective Elijah Boone stepped out of his SUV, the air thick with brine and decay. A kilo of cocaine glittered in the corpse’s hollowed chest like perverse confetti.

“Guy’s face is hamburger,” muttered Hank Guidry, Boone’s partner, lighting a cigarette. “Kicked in with boots. Message sent.”

The victim had no wallet, no phone, no fingerprints left intact. Just a Rolex—fake—and a snake tattoo curling around his wrist. Boone crouched, snapping a photo. “Check the docks. See if anyone’s missing a middleman.”

The medical examiner peeled off her gloves. “Time of death? Sometime between midnight and four. And Boone? The blow’s uncut. Professional grade.”

By noon, the lab ID’d the tattoo. Reggie Crane.

The Reggie Crane.

Founder of the New Orleans Youth Initiative. Philanthropist. Saint of the Lower Ninth Ward.

Boone’s coffee turned to acid in his gut.

Chapter 2: Saints and Sinners

The Youth Initiative’s walls dripped with murals of smiling kids and slogans like “Hope Rises Here!” Boone flashed his badge to a weeping receptionist. Inside, Director Marcus Monroe—a wiry man with preacher’s hands—paced behind a desk cluttered with scholarship letters.

“Reggie saved hundreds of kids,” Monroe said, voice cracking. “He’d never touch drugs. Never.”

Boone held up the crime scene photo. “Then why’s his corpse full of cocaine?”

Monroe palmed a silver cross. “Someone’s framing him. Reggie had enemies. The gangs, the landlords—he fought them all.”

Outside, Hank lit another cigarette. “Too clean. Feels like a show.”

Boone nodded. Saints made convenient masks.

Chapter 3: The Underbelly

That night, Boone prowled the Quarter, chasing whispers. Reggie’s name floated through dive bars and drag clubs, tangled with rumors of backroom poker games and girls who vanished after dark. At a brothel disguised as a jazz lounge, a bartender slid Boone a bourbon.

“Reggie paid for protection,” he hissed. “Cops, councilmen—everyone took his money. Cross him, and you’d end up in the lake.”

“Who’d he cross last?”

The bartender’s eyes darted to a security cam. “Talk to the mayor. They were thick as thieves.”

Mayor Cormier’s fundraiser was in full swing when Boone arrived. Swarovski chandeliers. Oysters on ice. Cormier—a silver-haired charmer in a tailored suit—clapped Boone’s shoulder.

“Terrible business with Reggie. A tragedy.” His grip tightened. “But don’t drag his name through mud, Detective. This city needs its heroes.”

Chapter 4: The Wire

Two weeks later, Vice dropped a bomb: Reggie’s empire spanned brothels, meth labs, and a smuggling ring using fishing boats to move product. “He was laundering cash through the Youth Center,” Captain Waterson said. “And Cormier’s dirty. We need you undercover.”

Boone became “Eli Marquez,” a Cartel-affiliated dealer hungry for New Orleans. He flooded clubs with FBI cash, bought whispers, and lured Frank Davenport—a low-level enforcer with a meth habit—into his orbit.

“The mayor’s the new kingpin,” Frank slurred over bourbon. “Reggie tried blackmailing’ him. Got the Plank instead.”

Chapter 5: Walk the Plank

Midnight. The pier groaned underfoot as Boone faced Cormier, the lake wind sharp as a blade.

“You should’ve stayed in California,” the mayor sneered.

Boone flicked his Zippo, the flame illuminating Cormier’s Rolex—real. “Funny. Reggie died in a fake one.”

Cormier’s smirk faltered.

“You killed him because he knew,” Boone pressed. “About the girls. The bribes. How you profit off every kid who ODs in his center.”

Frank lunged. Boone disarmed him, the gun skidding into the dark.

“It’s over,” Boone said.

Cormier bolted. Boone chased him to the pier’s end, waves clawing at the pilings.

“Should’ve dumped him in the lake!” Cormier spat.

Sirens wailed. FBI floodlights pinned them.

“Mayor Leon Cormier,” Boone growled, cuffs gleaming, “you’re under arrest.”

Epilogue: After the Storm

The scandal raged for months. Cormier’s trial made headlines; the Youth Center, cleared of wrongdoing, hung Reggie’s portrait beside their “Hope Rises Here!” mural.

At Mama Leone’s, Boone pushed cannoli across the table to Hank. “Reggie played both sides. Saved kids by day, sold them by night.”

Hank shrugged. “This city’s always been half-saint, half-sinner.”

Outside, rain slicked the streets, washing away nothing.